Monday, 27 December 2010
To get back into the swing of things, I thought I could cheat and post the blog I used as my most recent offering for Endsleigh. That's right, you are getting sloppy seconds. Apologies. But I feel it needs to be said - it's another one of my tirades against whatever has irritated me that week, on this occasion being Christmas. Bah, humbug. Here you are:
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
So somebody has decided that I can blog well. What a bizarre thought. No idea what the bloody hell I'm going to be writing about but if I write about complete toss once a week for six weeks I get 150 squids worth of Argooos vouchers and if I get all the way to Christmas without being fired for being a fraud, I'll get that plus another 150 of Waterstones vouchers.
Christmas is going to be an absolute bargain. WIN.
Watch this space for links to the new blog. What shall I call it? Not sure how well 'femmefatale' would go down - feminism being "unattractive" and all. That's a chin scratcher..
Thursday, 23 September 2010
University thus far:
Years completed: 1
Years passed: (miraculously) 1
Years pending: 2 or 3 depending on whether I'm mad enough to do an MA.
Likelihood of said occurrence happening due to severe lack of funds: slim to none
Friends acquired: somewhere near 200 - thanks Facebook
Friends I will cherish forever: 5-10
Friends I will cherish forever: 3
Plays performed: 2
Plays performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and hailed by The Stage magazine: 1
Books read: 14
Favourite: Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea
Messy nights out in Southampton leading to declarations of love/waking to find perplexing bruises in unlikely places/ whole days of bread and butter diets: unknown
Prime Ministers irritated: 1
BBC political pundits shamelessly partaking in what can only be described as 'flirting' with me: 2
Poet Laureates adored, met and promptly embarrassed myself in front of: 1
Could all of that have really happened to me? The ridiculous girl with curly hair and tatty cardigan, most likely to be spotted at the library or behind the counter at a chippy in Dorset? Apparently so.
Bring on second year where grades matter, bills don't pay themselves, houses don't clean themselves, feminist societies don't run themselves, unsettling themes manifest themselves... evil corporations need boycotting, plays need directing, English degrees need taking seriously, (and therefore) copious amounts of books need reading, new dubstep needs daddy long-legs dancing to, new episodes of The Inbetweeners/ Jeremy Kyle need watching and above all, fun will undoubtedly be prevailing.
Let the good times proverbially roll.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Last performance of Bliss yesterday. I am infinitely depressed. *Sob sob*. Luckily, it may have been our last but also one of our best - we acted/ sang/ celloed/ abused our little hearts out and were rewarded with a tantalised audience. As a character who is more metaphorical than physical (or something), I get the treat of looking out into the audience at various stages in the play, to creep people out, 'break the fourth wall' and what not. You know how it is. And looking into their faces, I could tell that people were genuinely repulsed. Success! One woman was actually watching through her splayed fingers, as if we were presenting her with a grotesque horror film. I mean, I know paedophilia and miscarrying is unpleasant but come along now, woman up! I doubt I'll ever be in such a play again, such obscene theatre rarely proves to be wholly popular. Bliss is hardly a crowd-pleaser. But in a strangely disquieting way, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. What this says about me, I'm unwilling to recognise.
You'll never guess who I met yesterday. Only one of my favourite three women ever! That's right, you've guessed it - Carol Ann Duffy! Good grief, was I excited. The lovely Miss Cutting and I went to see her show, assuming that Cazza had just written the poetry for it and wouldn't actually be there, but alas! Turns out she is quite the thesp. It was a charming children's show called The Princess' Blanket, incorporating art, poetry, narrative, music and a Scotsman playing a bizarre array of medieval wooden instruments to a hilariously good standard. Laughs ahoy. I practically bent poor Hannah's ear off with my incessant twitters of apprehension and excitement over our impending one on one. After the show, I bought a poetry collection of hers (I already have most of the material but I like to consolidate) and waited in the queue for her to sign it for me, practising all the uber cool and casual ways I could tell her I loved her without sounding like a psycho. But nay, alas, at the crucial moment, my emotions got the better of me and I ended up just blurting those dangerous three words to the unsuspecting poet. She considered me, this ridiculous rosy-cheeked teenage girl in a purple tatty cardigan, and said what nobody wants to hear having just announced to someone that they love them: "thank you". Personally, I thought it was an apt response. She could have told me to fuck off, after all, and I wouldn't have been remotely surprised. We actually managed to have a relatively casual conversation after that initial verbal catastrophe and I invited her to Southampton to speak for us (FemSoc/EngSoc - the perfect combination). And she was well up for it! Hurrah! Note to self: actually attempt to prepare something sophisticated to say. I have approximately five months to do so, if all goes to plan, so I may just about manage it.
Of my favourite three I now have just one to go. If anyone knows of Emma Thompson's whereabouts, I'd be much obliged. Unfortunately I'll never have the complete set - R.I.P Virginia.
Back to Southampton at silly o' clock tomorrow. Hello another 12 hours on a mini-bus. Back to life, back to reality. Lame.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Monday, 28 June 2010
Take a minute to help stop Nestle's latest baby milk marketing scam.
You probably know about the Nestle boycott and the way Nestle pushes its baby milk around the world.
Nestle's latest global strategy is to promote its baby milk with the claim that it 'protects' babies, even though it knows babies fed on it are more likely to become sick than breastfed babies and, in conditions of poverty, more likely to die. Nestle is claiming its baby milk aids brain and eye development and supports the immune system. It has added prominent, colourful logos to product labels in 120 countries, undermining the obligatory 'breastfeeding is best for babies' warnings that the boycott campaign helped to bring in. Nestle is also targeting health workers to promote its claims.
Nestle's claims do not stand up to scrutiny and break the international marketing standards introduced by the World Health Assembly.
According to UNICEF: "Improved breastfeeding practices and reduction of artificial feeding could save an estimated 1.5 million children a year". As UNICEF, the World Health Organisation, governments and health campaigners try to spread the message that breastfeeding protects babies, Nestle is using its massive resources to try to convince mothers and health workers that its baby milk 'protects'.
For further information and a message that takes ONE MINUTE to send to Nestlé, see:
I feel like this can sum up the facts in a perfectly concise and cohesive way, something which I cannot do due to the sheer amount of effing and blinding that gets regurgitated onto the screen in front of me. I am a tad hot-headed when it comes to Nestle.
I would like to say that I cannot believe that there are human beings in this world who could do such an evil and twisted thing. Human beings with mothers whom they cuddle and old love letters and embarrassing moments and secret indulgences and pictures of themselves with no front teeth and sports day awards and cinema stubs and favourite smells and unique blemishes and old frayed underwear that they refuse to throw out.
But in such a materialistic world where time is money, land is money, love is money, sex is money, kicking a ball in a pair of shorts is more money than I will probably earn in my entire life, everything is fucking mullah, of course some of us are going to abuse our positions in order to gain more of these heavenly pieces of paper. Even at the cost of several million babies. But how do they get away with it? If you killed a single baby, the justice system would make you pay. But what about if thousands of people all help to kill millions of infants. How is that different? Those poor, poor mothers. They have no idea. I feel restless and useless.
Please send this email - it is written for you, all you need to do is literally press send.